


Reverie

by splunge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Fantasy, M/M, Romance, Sex, Some small elements of AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splunge/pseuds/splunge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In addition to a recurring nightmare, John Watson also has a recurring dream. In this dream, he meets and loves a young man. The young man's name is Mycroft. John accepts that they are merely dreams, but what if they turn out to be something more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverie

The old bell rang. It hadn’t been in use for almost twenty years. There were no one up there. The room was empty and uninhabited, save by dust and scent of the past. At this time a night, the servants would be turning in. Stories and tales had been told and shared among them, of ghost and ghouls and spirits walking and wandering in the night. No one dared to establish proof of whether or not these stories were true. They dared not even think of walking up the creaking stairs nor gazing up at the sealed windows, not even in daytime. The bell rang again, small and almost soundless and yet loud enough to send shivers down the servants’ spines. They heard it. They would lie ever so still in their beds, in their quarters, and be terrified out of their wits. 

Creaks and thumps penetrated the silence of the house. The servants knew that finally Master Mycroft had answered the bell’s call. They imagined him ascending up the old stairs and they hoped, for he was the only person who could stop the bell from sounding.

The ringing stopped. 

The servants breathed a collective exhale and let sleep take them.

Sleep, however, would not take Mycroft. Not this night. The young man stood in front of the old wooden door. The colour that used to be green had turned into something that resembled damp than anything else. As if time had taken away its soul, leaving just a useless corpse. That was how the servants described it anyway, but not he. For Mycroft, it was wonder. 

The first time he was up here, he was six years old, and he met a man dressed ever so strangely. Tonight, he would meet him once again because the sound of the old bell indicated his man’s return. He placed one hand upon the centre of the door, and the other on the knob. He turned and entered. 

The room should be lifeless and colourless like the door that led into it. But it wasn’t. It never was. For when the bell sounded, the room changed from its original dusty state into something that Mycroft could never truly describe. It had a bed indeed, but not like any bed he’d ever seen. It had furnitures that looked as if they had been invented and built in faraway lands. The window in the room did not overlook the grounds of the manor and the fields beyond, but it looked out to an alleyway of a strange town.

However, Mycroft did not care for all of that. He knew that was how it should be, how it had always been. Standing near the window was his love, the only reason he allowed these strange happenings to occur without questioning them, without using his logic. His lover turned when he heard the sound of the door.

“ _John_ ,” said Mycroft, almost a whisper, almost a plea.

John smiled and they both rushed into each other’s arms.

Mycroft embraced, breathed in his scent, and kissed his hair.

“How long have I been gone? What year is it?” John asked.

“1874. You have been away for two years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry, my love. I am always ever so grateful for this moment.”

John chuckled.

“I didn’t know you turned into such a romantic,” he said and pulled himself away from the embrace and stood on tiptoes to kiss Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft wasted not a minute longer. He had craved this precious little time they would have together. He had been waiting to be with his John. He took his lover’s lips and kissed him hard and deep. If he could extract all the air out of John’s lungs, then his kisses would certainly accomplished such a task. They fell onto the bed. Their hands never stop moving, caressing every inch of their clothed bodies. Desire and hunger were apparent.

“So,” said John breathlessly. “You must be, what, twenty-seven now?”

“Yes,” answered Mycroft, nibbling John’s jaw and neck. 

“Any girlfriends?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you courting anyone?”

Mycroft stopped and looked into his lover’s eyes. “No,” he answered.

“Boyfriends, then? Male lovers?”

“No, I am not of that sort.”

“And what sort is that?” asked John, quirking his brow.

“The sort whose heart wavers. My heart belongs to you, John. I have declared to you of my devotion and love.”

Mycroft dipped his head down and kissed John’s throat. 

“I’m not real.”

“You’re as real to me as sunrise in the morning.”

Mycroft kissed his lips and drew a small whimper from him.

“It’s only been a week for me,” said John, “since I saw you last. But it has been two years for you. This can’t be real.”

“You are the truest of truths. You are my very soul. I could hear you calling for me, so I came to you. Our hearts beat as one, John, you mustn’t deny that.”

John pushed Mycroft away until they both were sitting up and looking squarely at one another. John pulled Mycroft’s dressing gown and undressed him. He pressed his lips to the centre of Mycroft’s bare chest.

John tugged off his clothes and let their skin touch. 

Mycroft gasped and embraced his lover.

They lay down together, coaxed one another’s desires. Their lips never ceased to move and explore. John spread his legs. Mycroft prepared and pushed in. He thrusted and whispered his affections. They released but never let go of the other’s body—John came first and Mycroft followed. There wasn’t time for recovery, they couldn’t afford such a luxury. Instead, Mycroft began licking John’s come, savouring it, swallowing it, until there was none.

Mycroft had never done that before: licking the mess off from John’s stomach. He looked up finally and found John observing. John pulled him up and tasted his lips; he licked and kissed until they were both very much out of breaths. Their hands clutched and locked, their fingers intertwined.

“I shall wait for you if it takes an eternity,” Mycroft whispered. “My love, my life, _my John_ …”

***

John woke up to calm, peace, and utter silence. He smiled. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He stretched and noticed that he was nude. He looked at his torso and saw faint traces of semen. It appeared like it had been licked clean. 

He shrugged. 

“Good morning, John,” Mrs Hudson greeted with a tender smile as John walked through the doorway. She set down their breakfast and squeaked a surprise “Ohh!” when John kissed her cheek.

“Mornin’, Mrs Hudson,” he said.

“Well, you certainly are in a good mood today,” said the landlady.

“Gave ourselves a happy morning rub, did we?” said Sherlock from behind the morning papers.

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“Tea or coffee, dear?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, tea would be lovely, Mrs H. Thank you,” John spoke with a smile. 

As he ate his breakfast, he couldn’t shake away Sherlock’s nagging shots of judgement and looks of enquiry. After this had been going on for some time, he asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s something. I’m not stupid.”

“Oh?”

“Well, out with it then.”

“I noticed a change in you, John. However, I have some difficulties in making the correct inference. Which tells me right away that this change has something to do with sentiment. If it was anything at all intellectual, practical or reasonable, I would have made a deduction right away.”

“Right,” said John, crossing his arms, a little piqued at being inadvertently called stupid twice this early in the morning.

“There’s something different about you. It first occurred after our dog case—”

“The Hounds of Baskerville.”

“As you so _poetically_ called it on your _blog_ , yes, that’s the one.”

“And?”

“Your sleep pattern has changed since then. You sleep an average of one hour and forty-three minutes longer than usual. You look tired even though you get a longer sleep duration, and yet, you wake up with a smile on your face. However, this doesn’t occur everyday. There’s no consistent pattern to your smiles.”

“So, besides my sleep pattern, you’re also looking into my smiling pattern as well?” 

John’s brows furrowed.

Mrs Hudson hooted as she returned from downstairs. “Perhaps, John found himself a girlfriend,” she chimed in. “Or a boyfriend?”

“Mrs Hudson, don’t be stupid, he’s not gay,” said Sherlock. He caught John’s sly smirk, his own brows too furrowed. “You said you’re not.”

“Well, I’m not,” said John.

“So, you really did find yourself a boyfriend!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. 

“No,” said John with a somewhat uncontrollable smile, “it’s nothing like that.”

“When will we get to meet him?”

“No one is meeting anybody. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Is he younger or older? I always fancy you’d go for an older man.”

“Younger,” John let it slip. Mrs Hudson squeaked. He stood quickly, blushed, and grabbed his laptop. “No, no, we’re not talking about this…”

“Well, what’s his name?”Mrs Hudson’s smile was wider now.

“Mike…” John uttered with a mischievous smirk.

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands in such glee while Sherlock glared with suspicions.

***

“Sherlock’s been very worried about you, John,” said Mycroft Holmes.

John had been sent to the Diogenes Club by Sherlock, per usual, to deal with his “meddling brother, who now needs his help because he was too lazy to do it himself.” 

John was studying the case file when such a statement was uttered.

“Sherlock, worried?” John chuckled without looking up.

“It came as a surprise to me as well. However… With you, John, Sherlock tends to divert from his normal behaviours.”

“You two talk about me behind my back, eh?”

“My brother informs me that you have been acting ‘strange.’”

“To Sherlock, everybody is strange.”

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft. He paused for a moment before he continued, “Are you feeling alright, John?”

John finally looked up. “You’ve been observing my sleep pattern too, then?”

“My brother informs me of it.”

“I’m fine.”

“Might I remind you that my brother is _fragile_ and I will not tolerate a so-called friend who—”

“You think I’m using drugs? Getting high?”

“You are addicted to danger like Sherlock is to his cases—”

“Sod this,” John said and threw the file on the table. He walked towards the exit before turning swiftly around and shot Mycroft a very dangerous, yet reflective look. “Y’know, I had a dream about you. At least, at first, I thought it was you. But it couldn’t possibly be you, and d’you know why? Because he is kind and gentle, and is not an egotistic, insolent prick.”

John slammed the door.

How could two people look so much alike and yet behave so differently? The Mycroft in his dreams could never be the same Mycroft in reality, surely? He had questioned this very thought so many times before. Why had he been dreaming about this man? Why was he so real to him as anything he had ever known? John had never felt this way about anyone, but this was a man in his own imagination. Was that the reason why John loved him so much? Because he was the man of his dreams? Could his imagination be so utterly brilliant as to invent this perfect man? It was something more, John knew to the very core of his soul that this was something greater, something beyond him.

He slept again that very night.

As soon as his consciousness dissipated, he opened his eyes and knew that he had arrived safely. There was always a velvet rope, just there where it hadn’t been in his bedroom in reality. But, here, in the bedroom of his dream, the rope was there. He sprang up from the bed and gave it a tug. He waited with such eagerness. Excitement thrummed through his entire body. He pulled it again, then again. Soon, footsteps sounded and the door opened.

His Mycroft smiled. 

“John…” 

His voice was smooth and soft and so intimate. John loved hearing his name from this young man’s lips. Mycroft rushed to him and pulled him into his arms.

“It has not been long this time,” Mycroft said. “One month since you came here last.”

“I’m glad.”

“But to be apart from you at any length of time is unbearable, John. If you would permit me, may I?”

John nodded and allowed Mycroft to lift up his chin with the tips of Mycroft’s own fingers and let his lips be kissed.

“You don’t need to ask, y’know.”

“Perhaps, it is more for me to prepare myself.”

“I miss you,” John whispered and kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “It’s hardly been a day for me, but fuck, I miss you.”

Mycroft had grown accustomed to John’s occasional outburst of curses and swearing, and yet, his eyes widened and he would still blush when these words were uttered. It made John chuckle; he kissed an apology onto Mycroft’s clothed chest.

John then laughed, “What’s this?” and tugged on Mycroft’s formal attire. 

“We have a ball presently.”

“What? A ball? Then what are you doing up here? You should be down there enjoying yourself!”

“I would rather be with you. You know that, my love. Our time together is most precious to me.”

John smiled and slid his hand up and down the front of Mycroft’s jacket.

“Well, I think it’s a bad idea to waste a perfectly handsome outfit on me. You could be showing them off to all the beautiful ladies and gentlemen down there.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful.”

“I’m old, mate.”

“ _Old and_ beautiful.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

Mycroft pulled John into his embrace once again. He towered over John’s smaller frame and yet he tried to nuzzle against the shorter man. The result was a tight hold, his head hanging over John’s shoulder, and John being crushed.

“It is my birthday today and you are the greatest gift I could ever wish for.”

“Today’s your birthday?” John’s voice muffled.

Mycroft nodded.

“I haven’t got you any present.”

“As I’ve said, _you_ are my most cherished gift, John,” he planted a firm kiss upon John’s forehead. “It is simply a day like any other, but my mother and father do make such a fuss. They wish to use this occasion to find me a suitable match. A wife.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I do not seek nor do I want a wife.”

“Well, maybe you’ll find some nice girl. Perhaps, you’ll fall in love with her,” said John and he meant it. He wanted nothing more than for Mycroft to be happy. 

“How could I ever love her so truly? When my heart and body belong to you? It’s a terrible fate to be in: to be married to someone who doesn’t love her and never will. I do not desire such fate for any woman, she deserves so much more and so much better.”

John looked into Mycroft’s eyes and saw tenderness and compassion he had never seen in any other man. “Men can be married where I come from,” John said softly.

“I wish you would whisk me away with you, John. I shall go anywhere with you, anywhere you wish to take me.”

The faint sound of music flew with the draught. John could hear light melodies of the piano and violin. Their bodies swayed gently and slowly. The festivities below roused John’s curiosity.

“I can take you down there,” said Mycroft, as if he could read John’s thoughts. Perhaps, Mycroft could. After all, was this, all of it, not fragments of John’s imagination?

Nevertheless, John’s voiced his doubts. “We can’t, remember?”

John recalled the first time he tried to leave this room. Mycroft was only twenty-one years of age and had declared his love to John. He had kissed John for the first time and had tried to persuade John to leave with him, to descend down those old stairs and down to the world below. But as soon as he stepped across the threshold, John felt a tug, like gravity was placed sideways and he was being pulled back. He woke up in his own bed in sweats and bruises on his torso.

Mycroft thought for a moment. “Take my hand, John.”

John put his hand in Mycroft’s and together they clasped tight before he asked, “Why?”

“I shall take you down to the ball.”

John looked at their hands with some scepticism. “It won’t work.”

“It will. I—” and here Mycroft stuttered. John had never seen him stutter. The young man had always been so eloquent and graceful. Then, a blush coloured Mycroft’s cheeks bright red and John smiled. “I… had a strand of your hair on my shirt the last time you were here. I kept it, as a reminder that you were with me. If you take my hand, you will be an extension of me. And you and I can go anywhere in this house, wherever we please. Trust me, John.”

It sounded plausible enough. 

The desperation in Mycroft’s tone warmed John’s entire body. His smile widened. He looked down at himself however and saw his tattered night clothes: an old t-shirt from years ago and trousers that had been worn past its prime. 

“But, I’m not dressed for the occasion,” said John. “My clothes are modern, although quite old, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Mycroft let go of John’s hand and took off his jacket. He put it on John and buttoned up the front. He inspected and smiled. “That will do,” he said and reclaimed John’s hand once more. “Do not let go, my love.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is one of the many ideas I had but never got a chance to write, until now. It's a bit different, as it deals with the elements of fantasy and dreams, the flow and pace are quite different as well.
> 
> This first chapter is a bit vague and mysterious — because aren't all dreams and imagination sometimes a little bit vague and cloudy and mysterious? ;) — (hopefully not too much to take away from the story), more will be revealed in the upcoming chapters. Please comment, suggest, or anything word of advice you so wish; do let me know what you think. And as always, thank you for reading!


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